Genocide Sample
MI6 Interrogation Site,
London
Charles German, Christine
Ryan, and Jack Holland sat across the stainless-steel desk from me and Ray Jensen.
All three were members of parliament from the intelligence committee. The room
was sterile, white, plain, cold. Ryan stared at us and said, “You two have been
busy.”
I nodded. “That’s
what we were employed to do.”
Jensen remained
quiet as he stared at her. She noticed his abnormal silence and asked, “Nothing
to say?”
“Why are we being
interrogated?”
“This isn’t an
interrogation. It’s a debriefing.”
“If you say so.
Where is Holly Smith?”
“She is being
debriefed also.”
I stared at them.
All were in their forties. The new brigade of politicians. Those who thought the
world could be made safer by talk rather than action. “You people have no idea
what we do.”
“That’s why we’re
here,” German said. “We intend to get to the bottom of your illegal activities.”
Jensen raised his
eyebrows. “Illegal? Mate, you have no fucking idea what we did. Yet you already
have made a decision.”
“Language, Mr.
Jensen,” Christine Ryan reprimanded him.
Knocker bit back
a savage retort. Like me, he was sick of people like this who were not capable
of conceiving what it was that we did. “Be fucked,” Jensen said with a shake of
his head. “You head up intelligence and you have no idea what is going on in
the world.”
“We know now, but
that is what we want to find out,” Holland snapped.
“Then how about
you sit there, shut up, and listen,” I said to them. “You might just learn
something.”
“Then how about
you tell us, Mr. Kane,” Ryan said curtly.
I looked at Knocker
and nodded. “All right, it started with something they called The Breath of
God.”
The
Breath of God
The Syrian Mig-25 came out of the valley hugging the
deck, causing the shimmering heatwave to part with its passage. As it passed, the
sonic boom rolled across the landscape as it gained speed, the pilot pushing
the throttles further forward.
“This is Scimitar
One. Two minutes to target.”
“Copy, Scimitar
One.”
Another boom
sounded, shattering the once quiet terrain as the throttles were pushed further
yet.
Half a mile to
the east, a herd of scared goats took flight and scattered in all directions in
terror of the giant bird. A young boy tried to stop them, but it was all in
vain.
Inside the
cockpit, the pilot checked his display and instruments, making sure everything
was in order.
One minute out,
he armed the weapon and prepared to drop it. Ahead of him, he could see the two
hills with the valley between them. That was where his target rested.
“Weapon armed,
preparing to drop.”
“Copy, weapon
armed.”
The pilot’s thumb
hovered over the button, ready to depress it.
The Mig passed
between the hills.
The thumb moved.
The weapon
dropped.
People died.
***
Twenty men walked out of the wadi wearing masks and armed
with AK-12s. At the head of them was their captain, Boris Chuzhkov, Special
Operations Forces of the Armed Forces of the Russian Federation, commonly known
as Special Operations Forces. He waved his right arm to the side, and four men
broke away and jogged toward the village.
He watched them
go until they disappeared. Ahead of him, Chuzhkov saw the first of the dead
Kurdish villagers, inanimate lumps of flesh on the rough ground. “Scout team,
report?”
“It looks like
the weapon worked, Captain,” came the voice over the comms.
“No survivors?”
“Not that we can
find, sir.”
“Scimitar Six to
Sheath, over.”
“Copy, Six.”
“Initial reports
are positive. Will update shortly.”
“Copy, standing
by.”
The Russian
captain saw a body staring up at him, wide-eyed, dried saliva present at the
corners of the mouth. Chuzhkov grunted in satisfaction.
As they entered
the village, more corpses presented with the same results. Men, women, and
children. The weapon did not discriminate.
“Results are
positive,” Chuzhkov said into his radio. “Checking for residual.”
“Copy.”
The Russian
commander reached up and removed his mask. Breathing normally, he waited.
Nothing happened. One by one, the rest of his operations team did the same.
Another grunt of
satisfaction and he said, “This is Scimitar Six. Residual negative. Ground zero
is clear.”
“Copy. Continue
mission.”
For the next hour,
the Russian special forces team continued with their mission.
“Sir, we have
found her.”
Chuzhkov followed
his man to where a figure lay on the ground behind a house. He stared at the
body for a long time before nodding. “It is her. Get all the bodies together
and burn them.”
Moments later,
the commander was on the radio. “This is Scimitar Six. Mission success, I say
again, mission success. Out.”
“Copy, mission
success. Bring your people home. Out.”
Chapter One
Antwerp, Belgium
I couldn’t believe I was back in Antwerp again,
working for Interpol. It was dark out, and the streetlamps cast their dull
orange, reflecting off the puddles formed from the rain earlier in the evening.
People call me
Reaper because of the tattoo I have on my back. I’m six-four, broad across the
shoulders, and a warrior of the world. More than once, I’ve been called upon to
rid humanity of human garbage.
I looked across
the intersection from where I stood in the darkened doorway. The rounded
facades of the sandstone buildings might have looked pretty to a tourist, but
to me, they provided perfect elevated rooms that potentially hid snipers.
I had personally
selected the men for this mission. Two on the first floor and two more shooters
hiding in an alley across the street.
Intel provided by
the Interpol agents I answered to was that the convoy they were expecting was
loaded down with 44-gallon drums of ecstasy tablets. All bound for the US and
England. They were to be loaded into shipping containers and then onto ships
owned by Gregor Halstett.
The businessman
had made his fortune as a drug pusher early in the days. From seller, he became
a manufacturer. But he had to rely on others for transport. So, Halstett had cut
out the middleman. He’d purchased trucks, which were sufficient for a while,
then once he was too big for that, he’d bought a shipping line.
Drugs were very
lucrative indeed. Especially when your income was somewhere north of a billion
dollars a year from the sale of illegal pills.
Because of my
experience, I had been approached by Interpol to see if I would be willing to head
up a taskforce to take Halstett’s operation off the map. Tonight was part of
that operation. Two-hundred million dollars’ worth of pills was about to go
out. The convoy was under armed escort. What drug kingpin worth his salt wouldn’t
have his own small army?
“Eagle One, we
have vehicles approaching from the west.” The voice was British, a female. Her
name was Lisa Geddes. In the past, she had been flying UAVs for the MOD, or
Ministry of Defense. Now she did it for Interpol. “Four trucks and four escort
vehicles.”
“Copy,” I said
over my comms. “Eagles Three and Five, stand by. Take out the driver in the
lead vehicle and the one in the rear. Then pick your targets from there. I want
the street blocked.”
“Copy.”
“What are you
doing, John?” a new voice asked.
“What you hired
me to do, Giselle.”
“I hired you to
stop a kingpin, not start a war.”
“There’ll be no
war. Just a little scuffle.”
“Two mikes,” Lisa
said, cutting across their conversation.
“Get ready, Two,
and Four.”
I drew my SIG
Sauer P226. If things went as I hoped they would, I wouldn’t even have to fire
it. Headlights appeared around the corner and the vehicles started toward our
positions.
“On my mark.”
I waited.
The vehicles drew
closer.
I waited longer.
“One, intel has
Halstett with the convoy.”
I was hoping the
intel was gold. What better way to finish off the night?
My face grew
grim. “Three, two, one…execute.”
***
My target, Halstett, had been watching the streetlamps
slide by as his SUV led the way through the Antwerp streets. Normally he wouldn’t
come with a shipment, but tonight was different. The fifty-two-year-old balding
entrepreneur wanted to make sure that the shipment arrived on time and intact.
He had received word that Interpol was closing in on his operation, so he decided
this was to be the last for a few months. It was getting too hot, and he needed
things to cool before starting again.
There were four
trucks. Three were loaded with drugs, the fourth was filled with his men, his
quick reaction force. The Mexican cartels were not the only ones who could
raise their own army at a moment’s notice.
He had the same
resources.
“Are there any
problems, Jan?” Halstett asked the man in the front passenger seat.
“None so far, Mr.
Halstett.”
The kingpin
nodded. Another fifteen minutes and they would be at the port.
They rounded the
corner and the driver sped up once more, approaching an intersection ahead.
Halstett looked out the window as the buildings flicked by.
Something moved
to his right, a figure in a doorway. He frowned and was about to speak to Jan
when the windscreen popped, and the driver jerked violently as a bullet punched
into his face. His foot reflexively trod forcefully on the gas pedal, and the
vehicle sped up and pulled to the right.
Even as it was
happening, Jan was calling out a warning over his comms. They were being
ambushed, but the question was, by whom?
***
The lead SUV swerved to the right and crashed into the
wall of the building across the street. I looked to the rear of the convoy and
saw that the last one had smashed into the rear of the one directly in front of
it.
The snipers fired
three more shots between them, their targets were the drivers of the trucks and
SUVs. Without them, they were going nowhere.
Emanating from
the convoy were shouts, and I suddenly had a bad thought. One which came to
fruition when the last truck disgorged its load of men from the rear. Heavily
armed men.
“Two and Four.
Last truck in line. Hammer them.”
The two Interpol
special operators opened fire, showing Halstett’s men no mercy. I muttered a
curse. This was all wrong. They had to have known, hence the extra security. “They
knew,” I said into my comms. “They fucking well knew.”
“How could they?”
Giselle snapped as I opened fire with my SIG.
“Not in my
neighborhood,” I replied. “But if you don’t get some help out here for us, we’re
fucked.”
A shooter opened
fire at me with an automatic weapon. I turned to meet the threat as bullets
hammered into the sandstone wall beside me, leaving scars in the soft rock.
The gunfire had
come from the lead SUV. I opened fire but missed as the man ducked around to
the opposite side. He went to the rear, and I saw him helping someone out of
the back seat.
Halstett!
I fired off five
shots in the retreating men’s direction as they ran into the alley. “I have
eyes on Halstett.”
“Don’t let him
get away, John,” Giselle said.
“Eagle Two, take
over. Keep them pinned down until help arrives.”
“Copy, One.”
I ran across the
street toward the damaged SUV. Off to my left, a figure materialized. I fired
twice, and the figure disappeared.
Slipping around
the rear of the smashed SUV, I kept running after the retreating figures in the
alley.
The bigger one,
obviously Halstett’s bodyguard, turned and opened fire with his weapon. Bullets
sliced through the air, forcing me to take cover. I dived behind an industrial
dumpster as bullets spanged off it.
I waited for the
shooting to stop and emerged from cover to see them disappearing around the
corner of the alley mouth at the far end.
“Lisa, do you
have eyes on the target?”
“Copy.”
“Don’t lose them.”
I began running
again, and when I reached the end of the alley, I turned left to see the
targets further along the street, passing under a streetlamp. “Giselle, make
sure my people stay out of trouble.”
“I’m in constant
contact with them, John. If it gets bad, I’ll pull them out.”
I ran along the
sidewalk, my P226 in hand. Lisa’s voice sounded in my ear. “John, they turned
into another alley about fifty meters ahead across the street.”
“Copy,” I panted.
I started across
the street and stopped suddenly as a vehicle appeared and almost ran me down. Pausing
until it passed, I made another attempt to get across.
Entering the
alley mouth, I stopped dead. The darkness was stygian. So much darker than the
last one and I was unable to see a thing. They could be anywhere, just waiting.
“Lisa, did they
come out the other end?”
“I’m not sure. I
don’t—”
Gunfire sprayed
the alley mouth, forcing me to drop to the damp asphalt. “Shit. There’s your
fucking answer.”
I fired three
shots, hoping it would give me time to back up and take cover behind the corner
of the building.
“Targets going
up, John,” Lisa said.
I peered around
the corner and could see the outline of a fire escape. Even though I couldn’t
see those I was chasing, it was the only place they could be. However, this
gave the shooter the high ground and put me at a disadvantage. “Lisa, I need
another way.”
“Further along
the street, John, there is another alley. I can make out the fire escape on
ISR. It’s the only way they can go unless they head inside the building.”
“Copy,” I replied
and began running once more.
Reaching the
alley, I swung into it, then ran along until I stood under the fire escape. The
bottom rung on the ladder was too high and I couldn’t reach it. Looking around,
I saw a dumpster. I hurried over to it and began to wheel it into place under
the ladder.
I climbed onto it
and started my ascent. When I reached the rooftop, I crouched and paused. “Lisa,
where are they?”
“Halfway across,
you’ll see some air conditioning towers. They’re there.”
“Thanks.”
Crouching low, I
started across the rooftop, trying to keep to the shadows.
“John, they’re
about twenty meters ahead of you.”
I didn’t answer.
A gun shot
sounded and I threw myself sideways, or I would have been killed. Bullets
cracked close and I returned fire. That elicited a cry of pain, and the
shooting stopped. I moved forward, the P226 raised to fire.
I found Halstett’s
man hunched over and bleeding. He reached for his fallen weapon, but I kicked
him in the head, knocking him out cold.
“Lisa, I need a
fix on—”
“Drop your
weapon.”
“Don’t bother, I
found him.” I turned and saw the man I’d been hunting pointing a Glock in my
direction. “Thanks for not running away. I’m getting too old to be chasing
people across rooftops.”
He smiled
wickedly. “Your chasing days are done, my friend,” Halstett replied.
“Yeah, I’m
starting to get too old for this shit. It’s better this way.”
“What way?”
“Me killing you
here.”
Halstett frowned
and then laughed.
I shot him.
Charles German
gave me a disproving look. “You killed him in cold blood?”
“I neutralized a
threat.”
“What next?”
***
It was called Molly’s Irish Pub, which served great
beer. I sat at a table on my own, drinking from a bottle. The beer was cold,
and condensation had formed on the brown glass of the bottle and ran down the
side in rivulets. I took a sip and placed it on the table. Over in the corner,
a group of men and women cheered as they watched the rugby on a large screen.
Ireland was playing Wales.
I was on my
second when the woman sat down. She had short blonde hair, a small, pointed
nose, and wore a long black coat over her clothing. She placed a Guinness on
the table and said, “Hello, Mr. Kane.”
“Was this the
first time you met Holly Smith?” German interrupted again.
“Yes. I’d never
seen her before.”
“What next?”
I stared at her
and said, “Do I know you? Wait, MI6, right?”
“I guess I could
be mistaken for that. You are partially right. I am British Intelligence. But
we’ll leave it at that. My name is Holly Smith.”
“What can I do
for you, Holly Smith?”
“I would like you
to come and work for British Intelligence.”
“Doing what?”
“Investigating an
incident in Syria. A gas attack on a village.”
“And?”
“I’ll tell you
more if you decide to come in.” Holly handed me a card. “If you decide to, I’ll
expect you here in a couple of days.”
“Chandler House?”
“Yes.” Holly got
to her feet. “Good evening.”
And just like
that, she was gone. Short, swift, and leaving an everlasting impression.
“Where does Mr.
Jensen come into the story?” Christine Ryan asked.
“I’m just getting
to that.”
***
City Square, Leeds
That was my first introduction to Holly Smith, but she
wasn’t done yet. She had another target in her sights.
It was called a
square but was technically a triangle. Six roads met here, including Park Row,
Infirmary, and Quebec. Watching over it all was a large statue of the Black
Prince, Edward. Except, at this point in time, he had help. One Raymond Knocker
Jensen.
He scratched his
beard while eyes searched around the crowd. Somewhere among them was Michael O’Rourke.
Leader of the Populist Front of the New IRA. Or whatever they were calling
themselves.
Intel had them
making some kind of strike. Whether it was a bomb or something else, they
couldn’t be sure. But it would be something.
“Raymond, talk to
me,” Peters said in his ear.
Brown eyes
flicked through the crowd, and the former SAS operator was conscious of the
pressure at the base of his spine from the SIG Sauer P226.
Simon Peters was
his operations manager. Head of Team Clover, put together to stop the terrorist
threat.
“I’ve got noth—”
He stopped and stared at the mustached man near the statue of the Black Prince.
“Hold it, boss, I might have something. Zoom in on the X-Ray with the mustache
near Eddie.”
Watching the man,
he had a reasonable idea who it was but wanted confirmation. Moments later,
Peters said, “Confirm Craig Murphy.”
“O’Rourke can’t
be far away,” Knocker said. “Everyone, keep your eyes open.”
Knocker kept his
gaze on Murphy. “One, I have another X-Ray at the restaurant. Seated outside.”
“Keep an eye on
him, Three.”
“One, tick off
another X-Ray near the yellow phone box.”
“Copy, Two,”
Knocker replied.
“One, I just had
an X-Ray put something in a trash can near the traffic lights.”
“Could you tell
what it was, Four?” Knocker asked, his heartbeat quickening.
“Negative. Maybe
a backpack, but I can’t be positive.”
“Boss?”
“Wait.”
“Boss, if that
was a bomb, we need to clear the square.”
“I agree, but if
we do that, we tip off O’Rourke. Hold position.”
Knocker became
anxious. “You want to sacrifice innocents, boss? That’s what you’ll be doing if
we don’t move.”
There was silence
on the other end of the comms. Then, “All right, Jensen, have one of your
people check it out. Discreetly.”
“Roger that. Two,
you’re closest, do it.”
“Copy.”
Knocker watched
his second-in-command move toward the trash can. As he did, he picked up a
piece of paper to use as cover. A man putting refuse in the bin.
Turning his gaze
back to the statue of Edward, Knocker saw that Murphy was gone. “Shit. Murphy
is on the move. Does anyone have eyes on him?”
“I have him
walking toward the restaurant.”
Knocker looked
and saw him. The roar of a bus drew his attention as it pulled away from the
bus stop. “One, we have a problem.”
Knocker turned to
where Two stood by the trash can. “Go ahead.”
“I’ve not got
x-ray vision, but I’d say we’ve got a bomb here.”
“Get rid of—”
BOOM!
The bomb exploded,
enveloping the agent beside it. Shrapnel was flung across the square, tearing
through the citizens who were there. Limbs were severed, other ghastly wounds
were caused, and panic was almost immediate.
“What happened?”
Peters demanded. “I’ve lost visual. Talk to me, Jensen.”
“The fucking bomb
went off.”
People were
running everywhere when sudden gunfire erupted. Knocker’s hand immediately went
to his P226. “Shots fired! Shots fired!”
Knocker looked
for shooters but couldn’t see any through the throng. “Anyone got eyes on the
shooters?”
“There’s one at
the restaurant,” a voice said. Was it Two or Four?
Knocker pushed
through the crowd. “Move. Get out of here.”
Then he saw the
first shooter. He brought up his handgun to fire, but someone ran in front of
him. “Christ. What the hell is going on?”
“They’re shooting
civilians.”
“Put them down.”
“I have Murphy, I
say again, I have Murphy.”
“Where?” Knocker
snapped.
“He’s moving
toward the restaurant.”
Knocker looked
around and saw him. “I have him.”
The Brit ran
toward the Irishman’s position. “Hey, Murphy, you black-hearted bastard!”
The Irishman
turned and saw Knocker standing there. He brought up his gun and opened fire at
Knocker, sending him diving to the ground. Cursing, Knocker came up onto a knee
and returned fire with his P226. The shots missed, but Murphy dropped the
backpack he was carrying and ran.
Knocker knew he
should be chasing the terrorist, but something told him to check the backpack.
Especially since the last one had contained a bomb.
He kneeled beside
it and unzipped the top, looking within, his worst fears realized. Explosives,
wires, and a digital timer counting down. It had one minute left on it. “Bollocks.”
Glancing around
the immediate area, he saw that there were far too many civilians here and
gunfire still rang out. “Peters?”
“I’m here,
Jensen.”
“I’ve got a
second bomb. It’s on a timer.”
His fingers
flicked over the wires.
“How long?”
“Forty seconds.”
“No, no, no. That’s
not enough time. Can you disarm it?”
“Sure, I can also
walk on water.”
“Raymond.”
“Just shut up, I’m
thinking.”
Knocker looked at
the timer, then the wires, and the wires again. All the time the timer was
running down. He was about to die, and he needed a Hail Mary. He grabbed a
wire.
“Fucking Irish
bastard.”
He closed his
eyes and pulled.
Nothing happened.
“Hold it,” said
Jack Holland. “You just pulled the wire and hoped for the best?”
Knocker nodded. “Sure.
I had nothing to lose.”
“But you did. Did
you screw up?”
Knocker shrugged.
“No. We missed a bomb.”
Knocker looked
down and saw the timer had stopped on three seconds. He raised his eyebrows. “Bollocks.”
“Jensen, what
happened?” Peters demanded.
“It’s fine. It
didn’t—”
BOOM!
***
Knocker’s ears were ringing as he climbed out of the
darkness. He coughed and could feel blood as it ran down the side of his face.
In the distance, he could hear Peters shouting at him. “Jensen, what happened?
Talk to me, damn it. Was that another bomb?”
Pushing himself
up onto his knees, Knocker looked around. There were even more bodies on the
square. It seemed that the second bomb had been bigger. He shook his head as
his vision blurred and then cleared. Standing there, looking down at him, was a
man wearing a suit, covered in blood, missing an arm.
“Shit. Sit down,
mate. You have to sit down.”
He just stared at
the Brit.
Knocker tried to
stand up and fell back to his knees. His world spun and he tried to shake it
loose. Eventually, he came to his feet, but the armless man had moved on. The
Brit said, “Does anyone have eyes on Murphy?”
“No—wait. He’s
headed up Quebec Street.”
Gathering all his
strength and his sidearm, Knocker managed to get to his feet. Around him was
utter chaos. He started toward Quebec when a shooter appeared in front of him.
Knocker brought up the P226 and fired three rounds into the man, killing him
outright.
The former SAS
operator’s shuffle became a walk, became a jog as he headed to Quebec Street. “This
is Jensen, I’m going after Murphy.”
The street was
narrow and full of civilians trying to escape the carnage of Leeds Square.
People screamed in panic and vehicles were abandoned in the middle of the thoroughfare.
Orange bollards were on the sidewalk where workmen had been not long before,
scared away by the explosions and the gunfire.
Knocker’s eyes
darted left and right as he tried to find his target. “Peters, do you see him?”
“No, not
yet—wait. Ahead of you in a blue shirt, green cap.”
Then Knocker saw
him. “Got him.”
He gave chase,
and just as he was closing the distance, Murphy turned hard left and
disappeared through a red door.
“What the hell?
Peters, did you see that?”
“Yes.”
“Where does it
go?”
“Not sure.”
“Well, bloody
find out.”
“Wait, one.”
There was a moment’s silence, then, “The tunnels. It goes down to the tunnels.”
“What tunnels?”
“They’re leftovers
from World War Two. The place is riddled with them.”
“Copy.”
Knocker went
through the doorway and saw the steps leading down and away from him. He
reached into his pocket and pulled out a small penlight, switching it on. “Talk
to me.”
A new voice
filled his ear. “Raymond, do you hear me?”
“I’ve got you,
Becca.”
“OK, listen
closely. You’ve got stairs in front of you.”
“Yes.”
“Go down and turn
right.”
Knocker started
down. “Why right?”
“Because that is
the only way out.”
He reached the
bottom of the stairs and turned into a long tunnel. He stopped and listened and
could hear footsteps receding into the distance. “I can hear him.”
As he started
along the tunnel, lights flickered on. Becca asked, “Is that better?”
The sudden
brightness made him pause. All along the ceiling was a long tube of conduit,
with lights in cage covers every forty or so feet. “It’s good to be able to see
properly.”
“Good. Now, up
ahead, there is a junction. Three ways. You’ll have to try and figure out which
way he’s gone.”
“Copy.”
When Knocker
reached the junction, he paused. His ears strained to hear anything that might
tell him the way Murphy had gone. Then he heard the echoes. The only problem
was he couldn’t tell if they came from ahead of him or to the left.
“Heads or tails,
Knocker old mate? I know, tails. Left it is.”
The former SAS
man sped up, trying not to fall too far behind—if he was indeed on the right
track.
The tunnels were constructed
of brick and concrete, and every now and then, there was a memorial plaque on
the wall commemorating different nights of the blitz.
“Raymond, up
ahead and around the corner, there is another junction. One path leads up some
steps to another door like the one you—”
CLANG!
“He’s gone out
the door,” Knocker said, starting to run.
He took the
stairs two at a time and burst out onto the street, almost knocking a
pedestrian over. He looked left and right but saw nothing. “Where is he?”
No answer.
“Someone tell me
where the fuck Murphy is.”
“We don’t know,”
Peters responded. “We don’t have him on ISR.”
“Fuck!”
***
“I have him!”
“Where?” Knocker
demanded.
“Headed east away
from you,” Becca said hurriedly.
Knocker turned
his head and saw the man he was looking for in the distance. “Got the bastard.”
He started
running once more after the Irishman. The distance closed rapidly, and once
Knocker deemed himself close enough, he brought up his weapon and said, “That’s
far enough, Murphy.”
The Irishman
stopped and turned slowly. There was a weird smile on his face, and he slowly
opened his jacket to reveal a suicide vest. “I do believe you have a problem.”
“No problem,
Paddy, I’ll just put a bullet in your fucking head and take my chances.”
Murphy showed
Knocker the trigger in his right hand. Knocker stared at it and frowned. The
Irishman said, “Do you think—”
Knocker fired.
The trigger fell
from Murphy’s hand, hitting the sidewalk alongside his finger. Knocker said, “You’d
think even a fucking Paddy like you would know the difference between a
dead-man switch and a straightforward trigger.”
The shocked
expression was still etched deeply on the Irishman’s face when Knocker shot him
in the head. “This is Jensen. Target down. Send bomb techs. We’ve got a suicide
vest. Out.”
Knocker looked at
the dead man once more and sat down on the sidewalk. “What a fucked up day.”
***
The medic gave Knocker the once over to check that he
was in one piece. His hearing was still a little muddled and he felt like he’d gone
twelve rounds in a heavy-weight battle, but other than that, he was seemingly
all right.
“Clean bill of
health?”
He looked up at
the woman facing him. “What the fuck do you want, Holly?”
Holly Smith
smiled at him. “Is that the way to greet an old friend, Raymond?” she asked.
“We’re not
friends.”
“Really? I
thought that since we slept together that we would be friends.”
Knocker grunted. “We
only slept together because you wanted me to do something for you.”
“Semantics.”
“Yeah, well I don’t
plan on doing it again.”
“I have a job for
you. Well, you and your friend, Mr. Kane, actually.”
“Doing what?” the
former SAS man sighed.
“Investigating a
gas attack on a village in Syria. Get in, get evidence, and get out. That’s
all.”
Knocker shook his
head. “That’s never all.”
“I’ll see you
tomorrow at Chandler House.”
“Whatever.”
She had her next
man.
“So, you knew
Holly Smith intimately?” Christine Ryan asked.
“Yeah, I screwed
her.”
Ryan glared at
him. “You are an animal.”
“That’s the thing
with us animals,” Knocker said. “We’re the ones you all turn to when you want
something done.”
German cleared
his throat. “Continue, gentlemen.”
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